


I know, you know, who that person is to me

by Chaosandgunpowder



Series: Carved in gold and ice (Jamilton mob!verse) [5]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alex is a manic lawyer, Alternate Universe - Mob, Explicit Language, Gil keeps his mouth shut and doesn't ask questions, Implied Sexual Content, It makes life so much easier, Laf POV, M/M, Modern Era, They're both twisted little bastards, Thomas is a mob boss, and mostly keeps him all of his friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:27:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26772916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaosandgunpowder/pseuds/Chaosandgunpowder
Summary: Gilbert is, first and foremost, a diplomat, regardless of his actual profession. He wouldn’t be able to navigate two countries, three governmental agencies, multiple socioeconomic classes and a range of acquaintances with varying moral codes and be as well-liked as he is if he were not. He’s learned a few things. Primarily beingkeep things to yourselfanddon’t ask questions,both of which apply in excess in this delicate situation, especially from his angle.~[Set alongsideWe don’t need a globe to show you the world is ours,Jamilton Mob!verse ft. mob-boss Thomas and manic-lawyer Alex] in which Gilbert tries desperately to stay willfully ignorant and diplomatic while everyone keeps asking him the same goddamn questions.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson
Series: Carved in gold and ice (Jamilton mob!verse) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1930312
Comments: 31
Kudos: 118





	I know, you know, who that person is to me

**Author's Note:**

> This will make more sense if you have already read _We don't need a globe_ , even though it runs pretty much alongside, purely because actually, for a mob!verse fic, there's literally no mob here, or even the mention of such (sorry if you were here for the violence, that's not Laf's thing), because Laf is hell-bent on pretending he doesn't know anything about it, even though everyone else knows he definitely does.  
> \----  
> Mob!Jamilton from Laf's POV - I thought Gilbert's view of how Alex deals with this 'ship would be a nice counterpoint to James's view of how Thomas does. Hope you agree!  
> \----

_[u kno Thomas Jefferson don’t u?]_

Gilbert has to blink at his phone a few times in the pitch black early hours before he makes sense of what’s just interrupted his sleep. He’s forgotten to silence his notifications and the message from Laurens makes him squint in confusion and he’s just curious enough that he entertains the conversation even though it’s stupid o’clock and makes him a little nervous.

_[yes why]_

He flops back down and lays the phone directly over his eyes so it will wake him in case he passes out before John replies, because it’s weird enough to be asked that he wants to know. He drifts sleepily, wishes he was home and could just have this conversation in person, and isn’t that even weirder, because he _is_ home, but the sensation of missing the life he’s built while all his friends carry on in it without him tells him otherwise. He jumps when the phone vibrates right off his face.

_[Ang thinks Alex is mayb dtng him. Shld we b worried?]_

Gilbert closes his eyes, counts to three and opens them again, because he’s not sure he’s properly awake, but _no,_ it still says the same damn thing.

Gilbert is, first and foremost, a diplomat, regardless of his actual profession. He wouldn’t be able to navigate two countries, three governmental agencies, multiple socioeconomic classes and a range of acquaintances with varying moral codes and be as well-liked as he is if he were not. He’s learned a few things. Primarily being _keep things to yourself_ and _don’t ask questions,_ both of which apply in excess in this delicate situation, especially from his angle, and so he replies with a sensible _[we should mind our own business]_ and then deliberately puts his phone face down and turns off his notifications for the rest of the night. 

~~~

The first time Gilbert du Motier meets his best friend he’s nineteen and they’re outside of a nightclub with mutual acquaintances who are distracted trying to pull Alexander out of a vicious fight with a guy almost twice his size. He’s a hair-puller, Gilbert observes, scrappy and frenetic and he’s - well no, he’s definitely not _winning;_ blood pouring from his nose and strangled yelps punctuating the dark night as the air gets choked out of him, but he’s not entirely _losing_ either, bloody hands from his knuckles to his fingernails and grinning from ear to ear even as he can’t breathe properly and Gilbert is high enough and impressed enough that he lends Alex a hand instead. Afterward when Gilbert asks what the fuck the argument was even about Alexander shrugs carelessly, wipes his bloody nose on his sleeve and says _can’t remember now, d’you wanna get some food, I’m fucking starving_ and he sort of wants to ask if he can paint Alex’s energy, but how do you ask another dude that without sounding like you’re hitting on them, and he’s starving too, so he says _yes_ instead and that’s that.

The first time he meets Thomas Jefferson, Gilbert is twelve and his family are hosting the eldest child of his father’s Virginian business associate for the summer. Thomas is the only fourteen-year-old Gilbert has ever met that is capable of commanding the complete attention of a room full of adults, looking down his nose at them all even though he’s on the small side; not fully grown into the long limbs he’s clearly going to have and they don’t have much to say to each other because he scares Gilbert a little, because Gilbert knows why all those adults were paying attention; what kind of associate Peter Jefferson is to his father and he’s not supposed to ask questions or think about such things. So he steers clear of the other boy until he’s playing the piano in the music room one day and Thomas hovers in the doorway listening. Gilbert asks _do you play_ and Thomas shrugs _used to play violin_ and then a beat later _my father says only pansies play music_ and Gilbert gestures at the offending instrument in the corner, says _then all of Paris is full of pansies_ and suddenly they’re somehow inseparable friends for the entire summer until Thomas’s father gets a metaphorical and physical knife in the back and he has to go home to bury him.

To be forced to consider that these two men inhabit even remotely the same plane of existence is a weird kind of crisis of self for Gilbert, like throwing a party and inviting all the spheres of his life to mingle and merge uncomfortably, the different aspects of his personality rubbing grossly up against each other. Consider it he has to, though, because on waking in the early morning sun his chat history is still there in white-and-blue and not the late-night fever dream he’d maybe thought it had been and he immediately negates his own great advice by messaging Alexander.

_[call me]_

Alex calls less than three minutes later, even though it’s definitely close to one in the morning in New York, and he sounds wide awake when he chirps;

 _“Ça roule?_ You alright over there, _mon préféré?”_

 _“Ça dépend;_ _Thomas Jefferson,_ Alexander,” Gilbert says, flopping back into bed, because his family downstairs can wait if it’s for this, and Alex groans loudly. This will bother him, Gilbert can already tell. For the sheer amount that he talks, Alexander actually says very little; he doesn’t like people up in his business, keeps everyone a good arms-length away. Most people think he’s a little weird when they get too close; that he’s too intense, but Gilbert’s always liked _intense._ Intense looks good in a frame or on a canvas. Intense sounds like a power ballad or warbling soprano. All the best art is intense. He thinks that’s why he’s Alex’s favorite, even from an arm-length away. Why he’ll get away with asking these questions and come away with some semblance of an answer instead of a deflection and that’s probably why John’s messaged him in the first place; they all know it too. They ought to know by now that Alex will answer knowing Gilbert won’t relay this conversation to anyone. He’s not about to burn his friend for idle gossip. 

He shouldn’t ask too many questions. But he wants to know. 

Gilbert thinks he can hear Alexander’s teeth grinding as he huffs and grumbles; _putain d'enfer, salauds interférants, pires amis, assholes need to get off my fucking dick, I swear-_

“True then,” Gilbert laughs, interrupting because once Alex gets past the first sentence of a complaint he never learns anything new; it mostly devolves into repetition and cussing. _“Quand est-ce arrivé?_ More importantly _how_ did this happen?” 

“He’s the best fuck of my life and he kept buying me flowers,” Alex says bluntly and Gilbert can imagine him shrugging carelessly like that very first night while he does so, like that one sentence completely and utterly explains why the admittedly questionable decision he’s made is a good idea, and maybe it does, to Alex. He’d once combated a rumor that he was sucking dick for his impressive PoliSci grade by issuing an immediate, ill-thought-out bulletin detailing exactly how _no_ he was _actually sleeping with a completely different professor who doesn’t even teach me, thank you very much, get your fucking facts straight, here’s some very explicit proof_ and promptly got _that_ poor guy very much fired. 

For all of his supposed intelligence, Alexander really is the most impulsive son of a bitch alive sometimes. 

He feels a little guilty for the unease twisting his stomach as he says _I really didn’t need to hear that_ and _how long_ and _how the hell did you even meet_ because it wasn’t through _Gilbert_ that’s for sure, and Alex says _fucking prude_ and _four months_ and _you don’t want to know_ and he takes Alex’s word for that one.

Guilty, because Thomas has always been a kind and good friend to him; one that he’s happy to have dinner and drinks with, to discuss music and movies and his art and the finer things in life but there’s a solid line there; Gilbert has no part in Thomas’s more ambiguous activities and never will - he’s long since made that distinction. Those are his father’s problems to handle if they ever crop up and by mutual agreement he and Thomas are clear never to cross that boundary. No, Gilbert is content to continue on and pretend as though their connection is as pure and innocent as the driven snow if it retains him a dear friend, but he knows, he _knows_ that Alexander does not _do_ boundaries, will obnoxiously kick dirt all over any kind of proprietary line drawn in front of him; there will be no confining him to a relationship with only half a man. So in the end Gilbert feels reluctantly justified in quietly asking _are you sure about this_ and when Alexander gives him a curt, firm _yes,_ he accepts it, because Alex is already decided. 

Gilbert hardly ever argues with Alex. There really is no point. 

~~~

“So, you know Thomas Jefferson don’t you?”

“Why do people keep asking me that?” Gilbert frowns at Hercules and then Angelica across the booth as she says _did you ask him,_ sliding in beside her sister with more grace than Gilbert can manage even when he’s trying, which is saying something because he’s pretty smooth if he does say so himself, and it annoys him because this has come from her, her can tell, and she looks like she’s already about to derail the _welcome home_ drinks they’re meant to be having with probing questions about _Thomas._

He doesn’t want to talk about Thomas, because Thomas doesn’t _like_ to be talked about, would absolutely not appreciate his candor here. Plus he knows where this is going; the conversation he’s been managing to avoid having for a month, purely by virtue of being halfway across the globe in a different timezone. He feels that weird disjointed sensation again, like oil paint and water combining in his stomach as John says _haven’t you known him since you were children_ and Angelica throws in _how well do you know him_ and Gilbert has to honestly answer _yes_ and _he is a good friend, he is hosting me right now while my old apartment is vacated and cleaned._ He can tell this both interests and throws her because she and John exchange a look that’s a little curious and a lot wary. Hercules raps his knuckles on the table anxiously.

“What’s his deal Gil? Angelica thinks Alex is sleeping with him.”

“No,” Angelica says firmly, crossing her stockinged legs and tutting. “It’s not something I _think._ When are you all going to listen to me? Since when does Alexander _willingly withdraw_ from anything, let alone a challenge? And I swear he can’t damn well sit down properly half the time anymore. He’s sleeping with _someone_ related to that godawful mess of a case. Unless anyone’s going to suggest he’s banging John Adams?”

There’s a silence in which nobody speaks until Eliza wrinkles her delicate nose and says _ew._

“Yeah I didn’t think so,” Angelica steamrollers on. “I _know_ he’s sleeping with Jefferson. What I _think_ is that they’re dating. My father thinks he saw them at dinner together a few weeks ago. They were _sharing food.”_ She phrases it like there’s an insurmountable difference between the two, like Alex getting his rocks off is acceptable within reason but some kind of line has been crossed if there’s actual, emotionally-committed dating involved and she blinks expectantly at Gilbert to confirm her detective work. He shakes his head, lost and uncomfortable and sort of wishes he’d cracked out some product before he’d left home. 

“Okay?” he purses his lips, uneasy. “-and if he is?”

“Isn’t he…a little shady?” John frowns, unusually diplomatic himself. “Like, everyone knows his family’s always been crooked as fuck right? My father won’t go near him.” 

He says it like he honestly thinks Gilbert’s family are _literal_ French aristocracy instead of metaphorical, far closer to the Jeffersons’ version of nobility than Gilbert would really like, albeit a damn sight more hands off. Gilbert’s parents prefer to pay people to do their work for them. Clean hands and a clean enough conscience that they can almost pretend they’re upstanding people. Gilbert calls it _classier._ Thomas calls it _lazy._ They agree to disagree. He wonders how the hell they all think he’s known Thomas since they were children if not via old family connections but decides not to investigate, because that’s a can of worms he’s not interested in cracking open.

He feels a little gross having this conversation without Alex present, considering he’s spent the past few days catching up with him, keen to get a handle on this weird little Venn diagram his social life has apparently become in his absence and now he’s spent some time in that muddy intersection with the two them, it’s clear. 

They’re in _love._

The civilized half of Thomas that Gilbert gets to see has always been full of winning qualities; he’s thoughtful, smart, _cultured._ He’s elegant and well spoken and quick witted. _Loving_ has never been one of those things, but there really is no other word for the adoring way Thomas watches Alexander, bordering on the wrong side of obsessive, hardly looks away more than he has to, even when he’s speaking to Gilbert, like if Alex is in the room he automatically merits Thomas’s undivided attention at the expense of anything and everybody else. It’s confounding and unexpected, but there it is, and Alex-

Well. Alex is more difficult, of course, much as one would naturally assume it would be the other way around. Alex has never been good at _vulnerable_ or _emotional,_ covers and deflects and overcompensates for anything of the sort with an excess of snarling and cussing until you’ve forgotten there was even a question over his softness, but it does exist. Gilbert’s known him long enough to know that, and to be able to see it in him now because he does something Gilbert’s never seen before; he _relaxes_ \- _Alexander Hamilton, calm, a miracle_ \- under Thomas’s palm on the back of his neck or the small of his back. It's not like he _stops,_ Alex never actually _stops,_ but he doesn’t twitch, doesn’t jitter, doesn’t need to twiddle his fingers just for something to do. It's the most even keel Gilbert has ever seen him on. He’s lit up, too, bright sparks dancing behind his eyes in that way he only ever gets when he’s doing something exciting enough to make him feel _really_ alive, for a single precious second before it dissipates and leaves him bereft and wanting, except he’s been looking that way for the entire time Gilbert’s been with them and it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. 

It’s fun, actually. He hadn't expected that, but the two of them are having _fun._

Two days ago he and Alex had abruptly discovered Thomas awkwardly inspecting the door frame outside of the den as they left, and Gilbert had been a little slow on the uptake until Alex had barked a laugh and loudly crowed _you filthy fucking eavesdropper_ and in the same breath turned to Gilbert with a _je crois que j'ai complètement oublié comment converser en anglais. Quel malheur._ Alexander loves to prove a point and Gilbert thought Thomas could maybe do with the injection of humor, so they have spoken in nothing but French since, though he’d been pleasantly surprised when after he'd primly replied _tout à fait raison,_ Thomas’s betrayed look had bled into a fond, amused eye roll as Gilbert tried to convey _have you ever tried to argue with him? It’s not pretty_ with a single shrug and he’s been watching them wind each other up ever since. 

Thomas will drawl something deliberately moronic and smirk as Alex rants in French and turns purple with his effort not to switch back to a language he can understand in order to more appropriately convey his utter and complete stupidity. Alex holds his own though, occasionally throws out the most obscene statements; low timbre of his voice and the press of his teeth into his lip leaving no doubt as to the nature of his words while Thomas chews the inside of his mouth, burning with his jealousy that Gilbert gets to hear that filth while he doesn’t, even though Gilbert would really, _really_ rather _not,_ until this afternoon Alex had come over after work and found them reading upstairs in Thomas’s lounge, cocked a hip against the door and purred out _mon amour, je veux que tu lèche ta propre graine de mon corps ouvert jusqu'à ce que je hurle et que je te supplie de me baiser à nouveau-_ Gilbert had choked on his chamomile tea, spat it all over over his book in his fluster and while he was still coughing up one of his lungs Thomas had finally snapped and dragged Alex from the room by the back of his shirt. Gilbert had heard his victorious, wicked laughter down the hall and quietly slipped the door shut, because Alexander was good at getting what he wanted and he had no desire to hear _that_ particular scenario being played out, though he couldn’t help smile, because the whole thing was positively _playful._

It shouldn’t work. It _really_ shouldn’t. They’re a traditional, quaint, watercolor country-cottage scene with a can of bargain-basement emulsion spilled haphazardly overtop, and yet Alex’s eyes are permanently bright and he’s never seemed more stable and Thomas is _loving_ and _playful_ and so Gilbert had sort of felt a whole lot better about the situation, right up until he’d sat down in this booth that was more and more sounding like some kind of fucked up intervention or witchhunt the more they spoke; _not like there’s any proof though, could be exaggerated_ and _no, daddy’s heard things_ and _we all know he’s corrupt_ and _people are terrified_ and-

“I do not think there is need for concern,” Gilbert says firmly, thinks about Alex’s blunt _yes_ on the phone from four weeks and three-and-a-half-thousand miles ago, thinks _I do not think there is any point in being concerned even if there was._ “I have always found Thomas to be a good friend. Alexander is a grown man; our opinion on whom he chooses to date or not date is likely unwanted and irrelevant.” 

_Our_ opinion, in solidarity to ease the sting of _irrelevant._ It conveys _mind your own business_ without overtly pitting himself against the rest of his friends. He’s proud of the diplomacy until John frowns and Angelica shakes her head.

“But-”

Alex plops down next to him and slides Gilbert’s drink out from in front of him to take a swig. 

“Hey assholes, sorry I’m late. What are we talking about?”

“You.” Gilbert says, and ignores the sour looks he gets, because he’s annoyed that they’re not listening to him and also because he’s in no doubt that Alexander already knows, his overly-pleasant tone inferring that he’s surely overheard them. 

“My favorite topic,” Alex grins wide. “Anything interesting?” 

Angelica leans forward, seemingly resigned to throw herself to the wolves if they’re already snapping at her heels anyway. “Thomas Jefferson,” she says and Alex sighs, unsurprised. Gilbert supposes he’s been expecting this since he’d called Paris a month ago, and now they have Gilbert home to try to use to pin him down long enough to ask. “Alex, are you and he _actually_ an item?”

“Yes.” Alex says easily, obtusely offers nothing more, crosses one ankle over his knee. Gilbert steals back his beer while he’s distracted. They’re all quiet. Getting information from Alexander that he doesn’t want to give is like getting blood from a stone.

“So Washington knows?” Angelica’s eyes are piercing as she skips a whole bunch of preamble; things she doesn’t need him to answer, and this must be what they’re like at work all the time, because Alex has no problem following her train of thought, as though this is the next logical question instead of coming from nowhere. He nods once, doesn’t speak. “-and he’s _okay_ with it?”

Alex’s breath hitches at her incredulous tone in a way that makes Gilbert want to climb over him and escape the booth. He’s well acquainted with that _oh, let’s go_ noise, but he usually hears it somewhere close to two in the morning, filtered through a recreational or two, right before Alex goes for someone’s face and at least then Gilbert’s there with him in that mood, not at eight in the evening after one beer, sitting opposite prim-and-proper Angelica Schuyler. Hercules and Eliza are determinedly in the midst of a suddenly engrossing, whispered conversation and Gilbert desperately wishes they’d included him. He inspects his nails as Alex sits up a little straighter, jaw a little harder. _They’re only concerned about you,_ Gilbert wants to tell him, but he won’t. He relinquishes the quarter-full bottle instead with a grimace. Alex probably needs it more, even just for something to do with his hands. Gilbert examines the tabletop and watches him taps his index finger repetitively at the neck of the bottle in his periphery.

“Why wouldn’t he be?” 

“Alex, I’ve- I’ve heard some pretty dark shit about him,“ John purses his lips, scratches his face nervously. Alexander looks to where Angelica is nodding earnestly in agreement. “I mean, everyone says-”

“You think I don’t know that? You think I go to work and don’t hear that shit?” He shakes his head, exasperated. “You know, I _also_ hear your father’s a raging racist, John. Activist groups trying to tie him to the KKK for fucks sake-“

John squawks in outrage as Alex turns on Angelica. Gilbert grimaces.

“Not one but _two_ pretty little debutantes accusing _distinguished senator Schuyler_ of assault in the last two years-“

“Those rumors are disgusting bullsh-“ Angelica interrupts hotly.

“Of course they are,” Alex says, soothing, placating, palms up in front of himself. He looks between the two of them, raises an eyebrow in significance. “Of _course_ they’re bullshit. Rumors always are. That’s the beauty of what we do, Ang. That’s what the law is for. I don’t believe shit until it can be proven to me in a court of law. The burden of proving innocence isn’t something we place on victims of _rumors.”_

Angelica frowns, caught up and perturbed, considering, at least for now, while John looks cowed, offers an apologetic olive branch, asks tentatively how they’d enjoyed the restaurant Philip Schuyler had seen them at with a furrowed brow. Gilbert thinks he looks like he feels guilty, knows he hates those things being said about his father, and he has to appreciate, really, as they order another round and move on to lighter topics of conversation, refocus on catching him up on what else he’s missed in the last six months that Alexander managed to walk a complete circle around the rumors surrounding Thomas without allowing them to be discussed at all. 

_“Belle distraction plus tôt, petit lion, je suis impressionné,”_ Gilbert mutters to him with a raised eyebrow, much later, when they’re alone in the booth except for Herc on the opposite side, half-asleep and transfixed by his wife dancing with her sister. 

Alex snorts and smirks lazily at him, more than a little drunk. _“Ils ne me paient pas pour être jolie.”_ He taps his bottle against Gilbert’s cockily and then frowns. _“Pouvons-nous arrêter d'utiliser petit lion, s'il te plaît?”_

_“Pourquoi?”_

Alexander shrugs. _“Je trouve ça inconfortable ces derniers temps.”_ Gilbert cocks his head and lets the alcohol loosen his tongue. He shouldn’t ask questions, but he does. 

_“Vous faites, ou Thomas fait?”_

Alex purses his lips and Gilbert wonders if there is actually even a difference to him, but he shakes his head after a second or two anyway. _“Je peux parler pour moi, mon ami. Je n'aime plus ça. D'accord? S'il te plaît?”_

_“Bien sûr, Alex. Si c'est ce que tu veux.”_

Gilbert doesn’t argue with him, of course, but he doesn’t understand either. Well, not until they stumble back to Thomas’s, a few hours and a few more drinks later, snickering and shushing each other, eating chips in the kitchen until Alex falls asleep headfirst into the kitchen table and when Thomas comes to take him away he crouches in front of Alex and says _come on, kitten, let’s get you to bed._ Alex thwacks him weakly on the arm even as he clings like a needy koala bear and mumbles _pas un chaton, œil de ma tempête._ Thomas scowls over the table and asks _did he just insult me_ and Gilbert smiles and shakes his head, amused, and is in good enough spirits to break the game and translate for him. 

The kitchen may be dimly lit in the late hour but he doesn’t need much light to interpret the pleased way Thomas ducks his head. 

The following morning Alex greets him without surfacing from where he's trying to drown himself in his steaming mug, hungover and rough and in English. 

He doesn’t ask how that's come about, because he definitely doesn’t want to know, though he does take to calling Alexander _petit sève_ instead after that.

Alex glares but allows it, because it’s not like he can disagree. _Oeil de ma tempête,_ indeed. 

~~~

“So, you’ve been friends with Thomas for an age, yeah?”

Alex studiously inspects a set of filthy sketches Gilbert’s just finished for a couple who wanted an engagement shoot with a twist - that he should absolutely _not_ be nosing at, but never mind - when Gilbert snaps his gaze up in surprise. The voluntary broaching of the topic of Thomas is apropos of nothing and especially jarring following on the conversational heels of something as banal as them trying to decide whether John’s new girlfriend has had implants. 

_“Oui, pourquoi?”_

“You ever paint him?”

He doesn’t know what he was expecting to be asked, but it’s not _that._ He thinks about the few portraits of his hanging in Monticello but says _no,_ because that’s not what he thinks Alex is asking, and he hasn’t put the heart of Thomas on canvas because he doesn’t think he’s truly seen it. By the nature of their friendship there is always a part of Thomas held back; that doesn't lend itself to being stripped bare in art form, and his instincts tell him Thomas isn't the type to want that, regardless.

Not like Alex, who’d obviously said _yes,_ when Gilbert had eventually asked for permission to put his vibe on paper. _Asked,_ because it feels to him like taking an intimate photograph of someone without their consent and he wouldn’t dare do that either. He hadn’t just said _yes,_ actually, his whole face had lit up with interest, because he’d had no idea what the fuck Gilbert was talking about and Alexander was a straight up sucker for the thrill of something he’d never encountered before, had shrugged, eyes bright and said, _sure, why the fuck not, I’ve always wanted to know what my insides look like_ and then only a second later _do I need to be naked?_

Gilbert had smacked him upside the head and kicked him out, already mentally an hour ahead, in front of an easel with the largest canvas he could find because it’s not like Alex was going to fit on anything smaller, splashing across the empty cloth, taking up all the possible space he was given. Black at the center, at least for that first painting, one long, large streak of smudged-and-messy but stubbornly unbroken _black_ because he couldn’t resist the perfect imitation of the permanent ink stains smeared down Alex’s left hand where it always followed his pen straight over whatever he’d just written. Alex had bypassed that particular analysis when he’d seen it, though, just grinned _is that supposed to be the color of my soul?_

He’d wanted to know for real though, wanted the whole thing broken down for him and explained in excruciating detail, and listened, which was when he’d decided he liked Alex the best. He still asks questions about Gilbert’s art; long after their other friends have written him off as the living-off-my-trust-fund-starving-artist type and come to his increasingly rare exhibitions out of obligation more than appreciation. Gilbert knows that Alex doesn’t _appreciate_ it, that a large part of his interest is the fact that there’s something about the abstractness that Alexander just can’t wrap his logical lawyer mind around; or maybe it’s that no two pieces are the same, and so his understanding of one just doesn’t translate between. He still wants to pick apart every aspect of each one he sees and has Gilbert justify his choices to him until they make sense. Gilbert doesn’t mind, it’s his favorite thing to do, knows he could talk about it for days until everyone is bored to tears. 

To be honest, he doesn’t really care _who_ he’s speaking to, he just selfishly, arrogantly wants someone to listen to him talk about his own work until he’s hoarse and Alex doesn’t really care about the _art_ , he just wants to understand it, but they get what they want from each other and it works. 

Alex has it now, that original swathe of pitch black, even though he doesn't have wall space in his postage-stamp of an apartment big enough for it. He’d insisted, and had insisted on crippling himself to pay for it too - and hadn't that been fun, being cussed out for trying to give something away for free - because whether Alex had understood it or not he'd set his jaw and said _well you’re not selling it to any fucker else. It’s me, isn’t it. No one gets to own me._

Gilbert wonders, nearly eight years and a _Thomas_ later, if that’s still true.

There are overwhelmingly large parts of him now obviously reserved solely for Thomas; things he says and does undoubtedly steered and geared towards pleasing that possessive streak of his lover’s, whether he realizes or not. It’s been a month since the almost-ambush in the bar and Alex won’t play how-many-people-can-we-fit-in-a-booth anymore; there’s a bubble of definitive personal space surrounding him that he maintains almost permanently now, consciously or not, telegraphs in every possible way he can that his body belongs to someone else. He puts so many of his bruises on show that Gilbert’s already forgotten what he looks like without dark, browning purple along his collar, around his wrists, across the occasional flashes of the skin at his hips between his shirt and jeans, and Gilbert hasn’t called Alexander _petit lion_ since that evening, because he’d be a fool not to infer that _that_ is something else meant only for Thomas.   
  
He’d asked Thomas about it, because Alex may have said _I can speak for myself_ but it was such a Thomas thing to insist on possessing, every possible variation of his own pet name, that he’d had to check, just once. Just once was all he’d needed, though, to know that he’d been right; to accept that these are boundaries Alex is willingly erecting around the parts of himself _he_ deems as belonging to Thomas, though when Gilbert snaps the file of dirty drawings closed and meets Alex’s eye and asks _why_ he even wants to know if he’s ever painted Thomas, he raises his eyebrows and says simply; _if it existed, I'd want it_ and so maybe it’s not just Alex who belongs to Thomas.

“Angelica is not done, you know,” Gilbert says lightly, handing Alex a drink to replace the sketchbook, takes the plunge seeing as they’re on the topic and he won’t have a better opportunity to relieve his conscience, though he expects Alexander already knows, anyway. Alex tenses instinctively but then smiles.

It’s not one of his prettier ones.

“I would expect nothing less,” he says with morbid amusement. “She say something to you?”

Gilbert shrugs, because he may want appease that squeamishness he’s had in his gut since she’d cornered him two days ago and said _John and I are worried,_ among many other things but keeping to himself has always been a sound strategy and he doesn’t want to make things worse, either.

“She believes you blind,” is all he says in the end, _“Demoiselle ignorante en détresse,”_ and of course Alex laughs, because Gilbert’s under no illusion that if there is one thing Alexander _isn’t,_ it’s ignorant of Thomas’s darkness, though he doesn’t ask for confirmation, of course.

Angelica had asked, though. Had asked Gilbert _how close are you_ and _how often do you see Jefferson_ and it hadn't been difficult to tell that she'd wanted to know if push came to shove where his loyalties lay - with Alex or with Thomas. It was damn insulting, is what it was, and a moot point to boot, because she and John think Alex needs _saving_ , that he’s blinded by love to Thomas's faults, and so they haven’t figured out what Gilbert already has - the reason he’d even bought it up to Alex in the first place; if he’s ever forced to pick sides between his friends the choice won’t be between Alexander and Thomas.

It doesn’t take long until they do understand. The second and only other time he knows of John broaching the topic of Thomas’s alleged misdeeds the four of them are at his apartment one evening and Alex simply puts down his beer, picks up his coat and leaves without another word. 

John takes the sledgehammer of a hint, but Angelica doesn’t. She can’t stand Thomas, that much is clear, and Gilbert thinks the DA’s office must be privy to a lot of sensitive information because she’s like a dog with a bone and two weeks later when they’re all out at dinner she pointedly references Thomas and connects him to some recently dead arms dealer. It’s obviously not the first time. It’s probably not even the second time, because Alex groans and snaps that if she doesn’t stop talking about it in conjunction with his boyfriend in polite company he’ll report her for misconduct. _Don’t think I won’t make sure everyone knows you’re discussing privileged material with your friends over fortune cookies,_ he frowns, and there’s a stubborn set to his jaw when he throws out; _it’s so fucking unprofessional, and you may be my friend but if you don’t stop it I’m going to walk straight from here to the courthouse and file a goddamn civil suit against you on Thomas’s behalf for gross defamation as well as the malpractice, just fucking try me._

Gilbert doesn’t doubt him at all, but Angelica retorts that _defamation isn’t going to fly with a judge if its obviously true, Alex, for gods sake,_ exasperated tone in place as the rest of them try and hide behind their menus and pretend they aren’t witness to the horrible, awkward mess these two are about to cause but instead of ranting and cussing and arguing like Gilbert absolutely expects him to, Alexander shoots it dead, raises one cold eyebrow and says _if you could prove it was true we’d be in front of a grand jury already, dear._ As she inhales a deep breath like he’s slapped her he smiles, sharp and pointed and adds _do you want to share some noodles_ and makes his position crystal clear. 

It’s not _I don’t believe it._

It’s _I don’t care._

~~~

“Are you acquainted with a man by the name of Thomas Jefferson?”

Gilbert glares at the cop and looks pointedly back into the hospital room where his friend is lying asleep after having a fucking bullet removed from his gut. He’s not got time for this shit. He’s stressed and it’s inappropriate and he just wants to _see_ Alex for himself, and if they think Alexander will let them try to implicate Thomas in any way in his own shooting they’ve got another thing coming, even _he_ knows this and he has no clue what the fuck has happened here beyond Thomas’s hoarse voice on the phone giving him the base facts. _Hospital. Out of surgery. Woken up. Recovering. You can come._ The detective lurks, awkward but firm by the door. He thinks he’s going to have to answer before the guy will go away and let him go to Alex. He sighs. 

“ _Oui,_ yes. I have known him since we were teens. My father does some kind of business with him now, I believe.” He waves a careless hand and shrugs in a way that he hopes conveys _I don’t fucking know what business, I’m obviously not involved, please don’t think I am_ but also hopes his words suggest he’s close enough to Thomas to be unlikely to volunteer anything damning, either, so _leave him the fuck alone._

“And Alexander Hamilton?”

Gilbert regards the man flatly. “Considering you have interrupted me while trying to visit said individual in the hospital I would conclude that my confirmed acquaintance with him is _obvious.”_ He says this pointedly, like he was the one accosted, not that he’d come across the detective poking his head around the door obviously looking to speak with a thankfully sleeping Alexander while no one else was around.

“Er, quite,” the detective concedes, looking back down the corridor. Gilbert wonders how long Thomas has been gone already, how long the guy thought he was safe for. Gilbert knows he can’t be that far. He wonders if they’ve been waiting for long to try and approach Alex. “Are you privy to much of their relationship? Do they often argue?”

Gilbert stares at him for a long second, confused, before he laughs abruptly. 

“Are you under the impression that _Thomas_ did this to Alexander? _Vous êtes fou,_ no no _no-”_ he shakes his head, exasperated, suddenly completely _done._ “-if _this_ is what you are wasting my time with then I will be attending to my friend now, thank you.”

He steps neatly inside the room and shuts the door in the detective’s protesting face, huffing at the ridiculousness. He thinks if Thomas ever pulled a gun on Alex there’d probably be nothing a pile of rubble where they’d stood afterward, never mind-

“Making friends out there?” Alex blinks up at him, completely awake, the fucker, and Gilbert scowls at him in relief as he flops down in the chair beside the bed.

 _“Vous petit salaud,”_ he says, wraps a hand around Alex’s to feel his warmth for himself. “Were you awake the whole time? You will have to speak to the detective eventually, you know.”

“I know,” Alex says, wrinkling his nose and sniffing in distaste. “But when _I_ want to, not when _he_ does. _Je ne l'aime pas. Il m'a énervé;_ He was _rude_ to Thomas. Imagine his frustration when after days of trying to get to me, I tell him I don’t remember a fucking thing anyway.” He shrugs and grins, amused with himself. 

Gilbert can’t tell whether he’s truly being honest or not, and that's surprising. Alex has always disliked flat-out lying; a matter of principle more than moral, he’s sure. He dislikes being able to be definitively contradicted. Gilbert’s almost certain it’s a large reason he dropped his political aspirations for a career in law. Alex once told him that if he had to resort to lying to win an argument it meant he hadn’t spoken quick, pretty or clever enough. 

Gilbert thinks he’d lie for Thomas, though, wonders if this is one of those occasions. He thinks the delay in offering any information is probably also giving Thomas’s people time to investigate this themselves. Alex is no fool. 

It’s just one more thing he doesn’t ask. He doesn't want to know.

“He is an idiot.” Gilbert concedes instead and then grins too. “He believes Thomas shot you in some kind of heated domestic incident, I think.”

Alex frowns for a second before he cracks up into disbelieving laughter. 

“Shit, _shit,”_ he winces, hand over his stomach, snorting even as he cringes in pain. “Shit, that’s funny. _Oh my fucking god,_ I can’t-”

Thomas ducks in a second later and smiles to see Alex almost hyperventilating with glee, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. He isn’t angrily offended at the accusation like Gilbert had expected him to be when Alex wheezes out what’s amused him so much; he almost flinches before his face smooths out, impassive, if a little hollow. He says _if he tries demanding one more damned iced latte I could certainly be persuaded to pop him,_ but his hands are clasped tight in his lap in a way that suggests he’s trying to keep from reaching out for Alex’s and he can’t stop flicking a critical, assessing eye over him every couple of minutes as they talk and when Alex has laughed himself into actual, genuine pain and needs to press the morphine button - passes out five minutes later bitching to Gilbert that _they only let you press it so many fucking times ‘cause they’re stingy motherfuckers, not like I couldn’t handle it-_ Thomas brushes the hair out of his slack face and carefully tucks it behind a pale ear, clears his throat. 

“If you are going to tell me, _I do not want to know.”_ Gilbert says firmly. He isn’t dumb enough to think this is something he wants to be involved in. This wasn’t some random street-mugging-gone-wrong, and he wants no detail of what it actually was. It’s better for all of them. He keeps his eyes on Alex’s chest rising evenly. He looks alright actually, now that Gilbert has had long enough of him being quiet to really look. They’re obviously forcing him to sleep and hydrate more regularly than Alex ever does normally and it shows, but he’s still too pale and he’s hooked up to beeping machines and being tucked up so neatly in bed makes him look weirdly young and vulnerable and he’s been _fucking shot._ Jesus Christ. “I just wanted to see him for myself.”

“He’s going to be fine,” Thomas says, like that makes it okay when it really isn’t.

“Except for how someone _shot at him,_ Thomas.” Gilbert can’t help but hiss, narrowly avoids shouting. He doesn’t want that nosy detective listening in if he’s still on the other side of the door. Thomas swallows audibly. 

“No, they didn’t,” he says, sort of thickly, and Gilbert snaps his head up to look at him properly for the first time. He looks worse than Alex does. They’re kicking him out after visitors hours end, Gilbert knows, and he also knows that every so often Washington will come over to check on Alex and Thomas removes himself for the sake of all three of them, so he’s having time to eat and rest but it doesn’t look like he is. His hair is pulled back perfunctorily, no style to it, and his eyes are a little bloodshot with how tired he looks. He’s wearing suit pants and a shirt, but no jacket, no tie, top buttons are open, sleeves rolled up and on anyone else it would still look smart and put together but compared to his permanent elegance Thomas appears about two steps away from homelessness.

Gilbert can’t bring himself to sympathize right now, just glares at Alex’s lax fingers, and mutters _s_ _hut up,_ because _fuck._ He’d not wanted to know. 

“You’re pissed.” Thomas says and Gilbert shakes his head in denial, because Thomas looks like shit, because he looks like he blames himself enough without Gilbert starting to as well, even if that might actually be what he wants to hear. So he says _no_ even though he sort of is, even though he sort of wishes he’d questioned Alexander a little more on the phone that early morning in his Paris bedroom, even though it probably wouldn’t have made any difference.

Gilbert hardly ever argues with Alex. There really is no point. 

But maybe he should have tried. Just that once. 

~~~

“You knew Jefferson back when he lived in Virginia right?“

“No, Angelica.” Gilbert says flatly. She frowns. 

“Yes you did.”

“Yes, I did. I meant no, I will not be entertaining this conversation today.” He’s decided the best way to navigate this situation that looks like it’s going to be a permanent thing is to follow Alexander’s lead and make it abundantly clear upfront what he will and will not discuss. Angelica sighs and turns in the chair beside him, shifts to face him properly, takeout coffee cup in hand. He closes his sketchbook automatically; it’s not her case he’s been paid to capture and he’s always cautious in the courthouse, doesn’t understand enough to know what will compromise and what will not.

He keeps his face blank, deliberately doesn’t answer when she disregards the boundary he’s set, asks him if he’s heard of some guy found dead last week in his burnt-out husk of a house, two days after a backroom club meeting with Thomas and _Mercer’s intel says Alex was there with him, has he said anything to you? Is he alright_ and Gilbert isn’t fooled by the concern, she wants to get something on Thomas a hell of a lot more than she gives a fuck about Alexander’s safety, now. 

He’s already said he doesn’t want to talk to her about Thomas, and if there was ever a fact to keep to himself it’s that the name _is_ familiar; heard years and years ago associated with Thomas’s father, because that’s surely what she wants him to confirm, so he just blinks passively at her and studiously doesn’t think about how the date matches up with the afternoon Alexander had messaged him out of the blue _[have you heard from T at all today???]_ and then had never replied when he’d said _[no, why],_ and he’s glad now that he’d listened to his instincts and not followed up because he definitely doesn’t want to know. 

“That really doesn’t sound like Thomas,” he says eventually instead, completely honestly at least, because it doesn’t; Thomas is too subtle for blatant arson.

“You’re a bleeding heart,” she says dismissively. “For god’s sake Laf, the man put Alex in the _hospital-”_

“He really did not, and you know it,” Gilbert says flatly, because he didn’t and she does, unequivocal proof unearthed a month ago, as far as he’s aware, though the culprits of Alexander’s shooting can’t be located to be apprehended. “Thomas would not hurt Alexander. Alex is-” he cuts himself off abruptly, too lost in picturing Thomas wrecked and self-flagellating in a hospital room, aware that neither Alex nor Thomas would appreciate him completing that sentence with the intended _-_ _is the world to him_ or _-is too important_ or maybe _-everything._ Maybe he has painted the heart of Thomas after all. 

“-Alex is good for him,” he finishes in the end, because that’s less revealing but true, too. She favors him a look that implies _obviously._

“Naturally,” she says loftily for good measure, now it’s clear she won’t get any information from him. “But is _he_ good for _Alex?”_

He can’t help that his mind automatically goes straight to Alex too-pale and tucked into a hospital bed before he can force it away, and he scowls at his sketchbook, because she’s hit a raw nerve he’s been trying to ignore and _he doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t really want the answer to._

Not when the answer doesn’t change a damn thing.

“Yes,” he says, with a certainty he’s not sure he feels, and then adds “you should be wary of making unfounded criminal accusations you cannot support, Angelica,” 

She huffs, unimpressed. “What, I’m going to piss off Jefferson?”

“No,” Gilbert rolls his eyes. “You are going to piss off _Alex.”_

He walks away having had the final word but it’s hers that stick with him, and she’s no Alex but she’s still good at her job and it’s a hell of a closing statement. He doesn’t doubt that was her intention. Goddamn _lawyers._

His, at least, appear to have hit their mark too, because whatever investigation goes on behind the scenes, she doesn’t mention the man again, and the case must lead nowhere, or maybe Alex just sees no threat in her interest even if she is still trying to tie it to Thomas. Either way, the two of them continue to be able to sit at a table together in relative companionship, however intermittent that becomes, sporadic and infrequent, and he tries not to dwell on Angelica’s question too much, especially on those occasions that Alexander’s absence is oppressive and notable and the air is thick with their trying not to mention the elephant missing from the room. 

Alex takes that arm-length he keeps everyone at and pushes it out to three arms and a leg, manages to relocate himself to the complete opposite side of Gilbert’s social Venn diagram, and weirdly, it seems to straighten out his world a little bit. He and Alex spend more time together than they ever have, like he's keeping Gilbert close to compensate for the distance with the others, and so he naturally gravitates with Alex, sees his other friends less but sees Thomas more and not a month after that conversation with Angelica, Alex makes that relocation physical as well as metaphorical. Gilbert helps him pack his shit, take it halfway across Manhattan and lug it up to Thomas’s annex because he’s a finicky bastard who doesn’t want Thomas’s staff touching any of his stuff. 

Thomas doesn’t deign to actually help, just wanders about with a knife out, cutting the tape of each box and digging through the contents curiously until Alex throws things at him so that he stops for five minutes before moving on to the next one, right up until Gilbert brings in the Alex-painting and it piques Thomas’s interest enough to ask _what’s that?_

 _Oh_ , _that’s me_ Alex throws out casually, waving a hand at it as Thomas cuts the protective paper away, and he takes one look at the untidy, unrelenting black line littered with chaotic splodges and says _of course it is._ Gilbert thinks he probably understands it a damn sight more than Alex does, even after eight years. He asks where they want it putting and Thomas directs him to his bedroom, frowns _somewhere no-one else will see it_ and Alex laughs _wait until he’s gone before you insult it, asshole, Jesus fucking Christ Thomas_ even though Gilbert thinks they’re all three aware that wasn’t what he’d meant. 

“We should put something good up there on that other wall too,” Alex muses as he follows Gilbert in, kicking a particularly heavy box across the bedroom floor. Thomas cocks his head and joins him, looks between the painting leaning against one wall and the empty one opposite. 

“Like what?”

Alex shrugs. He looks over at Gilbert, considering, before he grins. “Something _fun._ Do you still do those-” he waves a hand in the air and Gilbert wishes he didn’t instantly know exactly what Alex is after, “-pictures?”

“Yes, but _no._ I am not sketching you having sex. I would have to take photographs, _mes yeux ne récupéreraient jamais._ Too traumatic.” he says. Thomas chokes on thin air.

“How _rude,"_ Alex objects, "I will have you know it’s fucking _hot,_ thank you very much, _tu serais chanceux de-”_

Thomas abruptly covers his mouth with a firm hand and shoots Gilbert a grateful look over the top of his head. A look that dies when Gilbert smirks at him.

“You could do body paint though, I’ll get you a canvas.”

The sight of Alex’s eyes lighting up above Thomas’s hand amuses him enough that he doesn’t mind that he ends up lugging the second half of Alexander’s things up from the small van outside without him, because the next trip he makes up there he hears Thomas’s flat, unimpressed _let me get this straight, you want me to cover myself in paint, fuck you on a sheet and hang it on my fucking wall_ and he leaves the box of Alex’s shoes outside the bedroom door instead of going in when it’s followed by Alex scoffing _what, too much of a fucking princess to get a little dirty, how disappoi-_ yelping and then breaking off into high-pitched giggles and so he just carries on by himself, because _no thank you._

Gilbert has heard Alex laugh many times. Alex snorts sarcastically frequently. Alex cracks up hysterically when someone does something he deems really fucking stupid. Alex whoops, elated and breathless and wild when he’s high on life and doing something really fucking stupid himself. Alexander Hamilton does not _giggle._ Until now. He knows better than to investigate _that_ newfound information.

On the next trip he makes Madison stops him on the landing before he even reaches the door to the annex, says _don’t go up there_ with a put-upon sigh and Gilbert takes his word for it. Madison helps him move the last of Alex’s boxes inside, though they leave them in the hall for Alex to deal with himself when he surfaces, and he fixes Gilbert a tea downstairs afterward. Although Madison sighs a lot whenever he trips over a load of Alex’s half-opened shit - because apparently there’s a lot of it and it’s everywhere thanks to Thomas - he leans over and flicks on the coffee machine when they hear Alex’s dulcet tones echoing a floor above and heading their way, and whether it’s any of his business or not, Gilbert still feels better about Alex being here in this house because of it. 

It’s not a definitive answer to Angelica’s question. He doesn’t have that. As much as he pretends not to, he knows well enough what kind of a life Alex is moving into. He still can’t forget Alex hooked up to beeping machines and how many times he’d heard someone in scrubs say the word _lucky,_ and he can’t erase thoughts of Alexander wobbling around his apartment, recovering, unsteady and sweaty with pain and exertion and stubbornly refusing any kind of help. But he also can’t forget how one steady touch of Thomas’s hand has his tightly-wound friend more relaxed than Gilbert has ever seen him, and he can’t erase the memory of Alex utterly content and mumbling adorations as Thomas carried him to bed and Alex doesn’t _giggle,_ but apparently he does, and so while he doesn’t really know for sure, he knows it’s not as simple a question as Angelica clearly thinks it is, and that will have to be a good enough answer for him, for now.

He finds it is _,_ later in the evening, when he leaves and Alex is busy half-buried in books in whatever room Thomas has given him for a study and Thomas presses a small box into his hand, just says roughly _keep this at your place, he’s too fucking nosy_ without actually asking him or even looking him in the eye before he ducks away and shuts the door in Gilbert’s face.

Gilbert doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to, because it’s tiny and velvet and obvious and he’s happy to realize that he’s happy about it.

It’s enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:  
> ~ Ça roule? / Ok?  
> ~ mon préféré / My favorite  
> ~ Ça dépend / It depends  
> ~ putain d'enfer, salauds interférants, pires amis / fucking hell, interfering bastards, worst friends  
> ~ Quand est-ce arrivé / When did this happen  
> ~ je crois que j'ai complètement oublié comment converser en anglais / I think I completely forgot how to converse in English  
> ~ Quel malheur / What a pity  
> ~ tout à fait raison / absolutely right  
> ~ mon amour, je veux que tu lèche ta propre graine de mon corps ouvert jusqu'à ce que je hurle et que je te supplie de me baiser à nouveau / my love, I want you to lick your own seed from my open body until I scream and beg you to fuck me again  
> ~ Belle distraction plus tôt petit lion, je suis impressionné / Nice distraction earlier little lion, I'm impressed  
> ~ Ils ne me paient pas pour être jolie / They don't pay me to be pretty  
> ~ Pouvons-nous arrêter d'utiliser petit lion, s'il te plaît? / Can we stop using little lion, please?  
> ~ Pourquoi? / Why?  
> ~ Je trouve ça inconfortable ces derniers temps / I find it uncomfortable lately  
> ~ Vous faites, ou Thomas fait? / You do, or Thomas does?  
> ~ Je peux parler pour moi, mon ami. Je n'aime plus ça. D'accord? S'il te plaît? / I can speak for myself, my friend. I don't like it anymore. Okay? Please?  
> ~ Bien sûr, Alex. Si c'est ce que tu veux / Of course, Alex. If that's what you want  
> ~ pas un chaton, œil de ma tempête / not a kitten, eye of my storm  
> ~ petit sève / little sap  
> ~ Oui, pourquoi? / Yes, why?  
> ~ Demoiselle ignorante en détresse / Ignorant damsel in distress  
> ~ Vous êtes fou / You are crazy  
> ~ Vous petit salaud / You little bastard  
> ~ Je ne l'aime pas. Il m'a énervé / I do not like him. He pissed me off  
> ~ mes yeux ne récupéreraient jamais / my eyes would never recover  
> ~ tu serais chanceux de- / you would be lucky to-  
> \------  
> [Title inspired by lyric from: Like I'm Supposed To by Drake]


End file.
